


Wild Thing

by sc010f



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Multiple Realities, Post AoS S1, Post-Slash, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-25
Updated: 2014-08-25
Packaged: 2018-02-14 15:47:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2197554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sc010f/pseuds/sc010f
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The experiments in the Guest House have unintended consequences and the time has come for those consequences to be faced. It turns out Phil would make a good Inhuman, but even that process has consequences and while the union of souls may make Phil and Clint happier than they were, there remain unanswered questions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wild Thing

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Canonical character death (and resurrection); discussion of possession  
> Notes: Thanks to the village that it took to craft this, especially Libby and Annie. Lea, it was an honor to write for your art!

_You don't understand the fear that floods the vessel called Phil. Fear is something that is so human. It stinks, the smell of cold and feces and human sweat and waste. You're looking forward to the day when the human elements of the vessel called Phil fade away, so you redoubles Phil's efforts, at night when the other humans sleep, when the vessel himself is asleep: sending him to the Wall, driving his fingers to scrape and scratch until the vessel called Phil's hands begin to shake and you can't trust him to scribe straight lines._

The whole place, The Rattrap, the humans call it, stinks of fear and waste. It's loud, too: there's a constant rattling and screeching outside. You've learned from the vessel's interactions with other humans that the source of the noise is called a subway: a Number Four Train. The train brings dust and the smell of piss and exhaust, more human waste into the Rattrap. The only place that doesn't reek is what they call the morgue (from the human French, not Latin) where the humans house their dead. He likes the dead, they don't fear. They smell clean. They're not humid like humans. They're cold. Solid.

"You spend too much time down here, AC," the woman called Skye says, coming into the morgue. 

"I like it here," you make the vessel reply. "It's quiet."

"It's creepy. And kind of… sad."

You like Skye, it's one of the things you and the vessel Phil would agree on if the vessel understood you. She's almost kin: an experiment and proof of the humans' cruelty and unworthiness to harbor your kind and you remember that her parents fought on the same side once.

"How is it creepy?" You make the vessel ask. 

"You're just… obsessed, I don't know," Skye says. 

"I'm not obsessed," Phil replies. "It's calm down here." You're surprised, that's not you, that's the vessel speaking. 

"Right, so you can get your paperwork done?" Skye asks. 

"Something like that," Phil says. You feel a flash of humor, another human trait. This one isn't as bad as the fear, but it's still so weak.

"Hawkeye's here," Skye says. "He hasn't asked for you, but I think he wants to see you. To report."

"He can report to May," Phil says and this time you feel a burning surge of irritation. This stinks like the bile of human fear, too, but it's acrid this time. 

"So, what, you gonna hide in here?" Skye challenges and you feel the irritation burn hotter. It's one of the vessel's quirks – humans always have _quirks_ – that for all the irritation, humor, and fear Phil feels he's so good at disguising it from others. 

It makes him a good Inhuman. 

"You're a coward, Coulson," Skye says. "He wants to see you."

Ah, yes, Clint. He's becoming a bit of a problem. 

"He can report to May," you make the vessel say. If you understood the vessel better, you might wonder at the flicker of sadness Phil felt, but really, humans aren't worth it. It's something you'll have to train Skye out of, when the time comes. She's absorbed so many human tics and quirks, simply by exposure. Bad habits.

Skye leaves with a huff and you and Phil return to work. You can feel night beginning to fall: the darkness creeping around the buildings, inky shadows lengthening. The vessel will need to sleep soon.

* * *

Surveillance Record and Analysis: The Rattrap  
Timestamp: 05/14/2014 23.00 hours

May did not, in fact, kick Barton in the balls, but it was close. Let the record state the analyst's surprise. Barton's behavior has been more and more erratic since Director Coulson's appointment. 

"Barton," she said.

"Mel," he managed to reply. It's the analyst's belief that he's (justifiably) terrified of May. Barton is clearly of the opinion that May contains the _mom_ scary vibe, even though he knows that they are the same age. 

"A word," she said. 

"Of course," Barton said, aiming for a gracious smile and coming up with a cocky grin that faded almost as soon as it appeared under the ice of May's glare. Wise man. The analyst refers to this as Barton's "shit eating grin".

"Coulson's not well," she said. "Fury told me to keep an eye on him, and there is _something_ going on. You need to know that. Watch him, Barton. You knew him better than I did. Before. You know his tells."

"Yeah, I don't know, 'Linda."

"Call me that again and I'll break your arms," she growled.

"Yeah, ok. But no, I didn't know him, apparently. Not as much as everyone seems to think I did. Because you know when someone dies, and then comes back from the dead, it's considered polite to maybe tell your _fuck buddy_ and not to let him find you begging for death, then pretend it never happened. So, yeah, I don't know _Mel_ inda. I don't know him at all."

"God, you are such a child," May muttered and took a deep breath. 

Barton's back hit the wall hard and his breath escaped with a loud _whoosh_. Dust fell from the ceiling and the whole building rattled as a number four train clattered by. Barton coughed. 

"Don't fucking tell me you aren't watching him, Barton," May growled when the roar of the train had subsided. "I _know_ you are. Whatever happened between you two after Puente Antiguo, that's over. You need to grow the fuck up and deal with this. Something is wrong with him. He's hiding it, but whatever they did to him in T.A.H.I.T.I., at the Guest House, it's starting to have an effect. I promised Fury I'd keep an eye on him. You can deny it all you want Barton, but you _know_ Coulson, and I'm worried about him."

"Yeah, whatever." Barton didn't even try to hide his sullen scowl. 

"Don't you ‘whatever me, Barton’," May said sharply. The analyst notes this as evidence for the terrifying mom thing. "He's losing time. Losing memories – conversations he's had. Briefing reports, even."

"What, did Fury give you a kill order if his tie wasn't straight?" Barton sneered.

May punched Barton. 

"Cut the shit, Barton," she said. "Use your eyes. That's why Coulson brought you here."

"Mfgh," Barton replied intelligently. 

"You watch him. I'm busy babysitting the rest of this crew," May said. Let the record show that the analyst takes exception to the term "babysitting".

* * *

_The vessel is having another dream. It's erotic. Eroticism is something you understand: the desire to procreate, the desire to wring pleasure from flesh. Not even your flesh is immune._

_Clint again. Clint ranged over you, the heat of his breath against you, the slide of his stomach against your vessel's cock, the hard pressure of Clint inside of you. Phil remembers and you the taste Clint's sweat, the sound of his gasp, the hot, hard grasp of his hands around Phil's and your wrists, the bruises, the rough give-and-take of heated bodies, the sound of Clint's cry as he comes, the pulsing of cock and ass, the sharp bite of teeth._

_Humans are so messy in their pleasure._

_You force vessel – Phil from his dream. There is work to be done. Only a few days stand between you and the your transformation. It will be good to be free._

* * *

Surveillance Record and Analysis: The Rattrap  
Timestamp: 05/15/2014 01.45 hours

The fluorescent lights buzzed to life, just barely audible over the sound of the gentle _scratch, scratch_ of metal on hard stone.

"Phil?" Barton asked.

Coulson froze, the blade in his hand, sharp and still against the wall, his back illuminated by the harsh fluorescents, his feet bare against the cold concrete. 

"Phil?" Barton asked again. Coulson seemed to shrug and began to mark the wall again.

Barton froze, his hand pressed to his chest. 

"Phil!" he cried, running to him, Coulson stilled again and then turned to Barton. Then, as if his strings had been cut, he collapsed into him, knife still clutched in his hand. 

"Phil," Barton murmured, pressing his lips to his hair. "Phil, are you all right?"

"Clint… I… Why am I here?" 

"Hush, I don't know, sir. You… I couldn't sleep. Your room was open, I… I found you like this."

"Did… did you see anything?" 

"Just you, sir. You froze and then started to write again. When I called a second time, you froze and then collapsed."

Coulson rested his head against Barton's shoulder, and Barton squeezed his eyes closed, pressing into Coulson's touch. 

"God, Phil," Barton whispered into his hair. "What did they do to you?"

"I don't know, Clint," Coulson groaned, surging into him. I don't know – the effects, the whole thing was too dangerous, I never should have allowed it to happen. I did this. I caused this."

The number four train roared past outside. The building shook.

"Sir…"

"So many regrets, Clint. Too many secrets," Coulson continued. "The biggest one was you. I'm so sorry, Clint. I should have told you. Should have…"

"Phil, God. Please," Barton whispered.

The analyst notes that it's about time these two knuckleheads talked to one another. 

"I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I wanted to die, knowing you weren't with me, and they didn't tell me…"

"No, baby, no, it's okay," Barton mumbled, his lips greedy against the stubble of Coulson's skin. "It's okay."

"Just… there was so much…" Coulson's whisper was helplessly broken and Clint's heart cracked just a little more. 

The analyst is not, repeat, not crying. The analyst is merely reporting the presence of dust in the office.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this, was it?" Barton mumbled against Coulson's jaw. 

"No," Coulson agreed on a shaky breath. "There were rules."

"No big statements."

"Differences in rank and age."

"Doesn't matter, though," Barton said.

"No."

And there was no more talking. 

Barton's hands grappled at Coulson's sleeves, pulling him tighter and closer as Coulson walked him back to the wall, pressing them together, manhandling Barton until he shoved him against The Wall. 

"Phil."

"Yeah?"

"It's warm, God, the feeling of you, pressing me against… The Wall, it's warm."

"You're broiling, Clint, God you feel good, please, Clint I'm so sorry, how did we manage to come this far?"

"Phil, Phil, stop, what are you doing?"

"Relax. Just relax."

Behind Barton, The Wall began to glow as Coulson shoved him deeper and deeper inside it. 

**PORTIONS OF THIS REPORT ARE REDACTED**

* * *

_When humans kiss, it releases all sorts of things: dopamine, for example –the chemical that drives them to a reward, or what they view as a reward… Cortisol, phenylephrine, norepinephrine._

_Humans make up all kinds of reasons to explain things that they don't understand, explanations for chemical reactions._

_When the vessel kisses Clint, coming on the heels, as it did of his dream, the chemicals released triggers the transformation._

_Early._

_You taste the bitterness of panic and fear._

_It's too early. You were too eager. It is good you have no sense of that human emotion, regret._

* * *

_The Playground: Location, Classified_

"Aw, wall, no," Clint groaned, gripping the floor and blinking up at… Coulson pointing a gun at him and himself, an arrow nocked and aimed at him. 

"Identify yourself," Coulson barked, and Clint found himself in the entirely bizarre position of staring down one of his own arrows. 

"What?"

"What the hell," the Clint-with-the-bow snapped. "That's not me."

"Well, you're not me, either," Clint snapped. He lurched to his feet. 

"Coulson, what the hell?" they chorused.

"Okay, everybody calm down," Coulson said. Clint noticed he didn't put down the gun. Nor did Clint-with-the-bow relax his grip.

"Yeah, no" said Clint, starting to stand. "Why don't we just drop the weapons…"

"Keep your hands visible," Clint-with-the-bow ordered.

"Hey, it's okay, man," Clint said. "It's okay, we're cool, be cool. I'm unarmed. It's okay."

Clint-with-the-bow didn't flinch. 

"Up against the wall. Hands where we can see them," he said.

"Yeah, yeah, not my first rodeo," Clint said, because of course he'd start running his damn mouth now, in front of himself and Coulson, unless that wasn't Coulson, and what the hell, man. He pressed himself against the wall, now cold, colder than it should be, he noted as Coulson (and wouldn't he know the man anywhere – fuck, even in a – whatever this was – alternate dimension? Fuck his life, probably was.) patted him down one-handed, the gun now pressed to the back of Clint's neck. The wall was cool under Clint's hands and cheek, wherever he was, it was not The Rattrap. The place was too clean, for one thing.

"He's clean," Coulson said. "no weapons."

"No," Clint snapped. "Because I was _asleep_! Now what the hell is going on?"

"Don't move," Clint-with-the-bow shouted. 

"Easy, easy," Clint said. "I'm just going to turn around, okay?"

"Slowly."

Clint turned. 

"Okay," he said. "I know this looks bad, but I'm as confused as you, buddy." 

"Who are you?" Coulson asked.

Clint took a deep breath and wished that this was the weirdest thing that had happened to him lately. Well, maybe it was, he thought. Alien possession was pretty weird, but it didn't involve being held at arrow point with his double, right?

"I'm Clint Barton," he said. "Identification code zero, niner, golf echo romeo tango india."

"Yeah, whatever," Clint-with-the-bow said. "First thing you give."

"I was born in Waverly, Iowa," Clint continued glaring at his double. There was no way this asshole was actually _him_ , right? No. Unless it was an alternate universe, because, yeah, multiverse, sure, why not? That was the perfect thing to happen. And totally made sense, too, right? Fuck, his head hurt "Orphaned, raised in the circus, I have a brother named Barney. I work for S.H.I.E.L.D."

The Clint-with-the-bow scowled. In the harsh florescent lights, the shadows under his eyes looked cavernous. 

God, did he really look like this, Clint wondered?

"Stand down, Barton," Coulson said, lowering his gun. 

Clint nearly wet himself in relief. He took a deep breath, breathing in the scent of recycled air, industrial floor cleaner – not the smell of decaying neighborhood.

* * *

_It's too early. Too soon._

_The transformation wasn't supposed to happen like this. The human vessel isn't ready._

_Cold blues and greens are curling through the vessel's extremities. He's pressing up against The Wall, cold now, power gone. The transformation will be incomplete at best. At worst, you and the vessel will die. Between those extremes is, of course, the possibility that the vessel will die, but of course, you'd be better unhindered by such humanity._

* * *

_The Playground: Location, Classified_

Clint's head was throbbing. Not-Phil stood behind him, stonily silent while this world's version of Simmons explained much too perkily for three o'clock in the morning that she didn't have the foggiest idea what was going on, but it was all quite new and interesting, and if she'd had the funding she'd requested last year, she might be able to make some better headway, and could she perhaps take this new version of Agent Barton to Stark Tower, and would Maria Hill maybe allow her to run some tests, but keep the results proprietary to S.H.I.E.L.D.

"I suppose there's not much I can say to stop you, is there?" Not-Phil asked Simmons. 

"Well, sir, we have to find out who or what this new Agent Barton is," Simmons said. "He could be a shape-shifting _alien_ for all we know, and isn't that exciting?"

"No," snapped the other Clint, the one with the bow who was glaring at him. "He's not an alien. That's not possible."

"There _is_ alien life," Clint interrupted. "And I'm not it. I know alien life. You ever met an asshole named Loki?"

Clint-with-the-bow growled. Not-Phil grew pale.

"How do you know about Loki?" Clint-with-the-bow demanded.

"How do I know?" Clint demanded. "Man, I was there!"

"You were controlled by Loki?" Clint-with-the-bow asked. "How…"

"Barton," Not-Phil muttered.

"He knows something," Clint-with-the-bow snarled. 

"Of course I do!" How was this Clint's life – arguing with himself? "I was there, like I said."

"See?" Simmons beamed. Not-Phil leveled a look at her. "Two timelines, one Agent Barton!"

"It's not impossible that Jemma is right," Phil said. "The, evidence points to you, Barton, and _you_ Barton," he jerked her head in their direction. "Being exactly the same person.

Clint sighed. Stalemate. His wrists were hurting. He wished he wasn't so familiar with standard issue S.H.I.E.L.D. handcuffs. Also, his head – the lights were too bright in this world, too hard.

" _If_ ," Simmons interrupted. "I had a decent laboratory, I could _easily_ run tests on Agent, erm… that is to say this new version of Agent Barton. But since I don't…"

"Take him to Stark, you mean," Not-Phil said. 

The problem was, of course, as far as Clint could see, owing Stark a monumental favor was problematic to say the least. At least, if this Stark was anything like _his_.

"Fine," Not-Phil said after a while. "But if he puts a toe out of line, shoot him."

The other Barton looked relieved, then confused, then apprehensive, which is to say that this face twitched a little and his left eyebrow moved.

It was fucking _scary_ how much Clint reminded him of himself.

* * *

Surveillance Record and Analysis: The Rattrap  
Timestamp: 05/15/2014 04.20 hours

"I'm not… there are trace elements of something we think might be… Terrigen… like it could be mist, almost," Simmons said quietly. "But other than that, I can't be certain of…. Well, anything at this point. Sir."

"Then find something!" cried Coulson. 

"Hey, do you… what exactly…"

" _What_ , Skye?"

"Okay, this is super awkward," said Skye, and I totally don't mean anything by it. Totally, but I was wondering what you and Hawk—er, that is Agent Barton were doing when he… disappeared into the wall."

Coulson brought his chin up. 

"Find him," he replied.

Jemma nodded her head slightly, scurrying to the door. Skye wheeled Fitz out. 

"We'll get him back," Fitz said, gripping the wheels of his chair to stop Skye at the door.

"Thank you, Agent, Fitz" Coulson said. 

"You got it, sir." He rapped on the doorframe. 

May stayed behind. 

"Phil."

"Please, don't, Melinda." Coulson's voice broke. "Please, don't." 

The analyst is still not crying.

* * *

_Stark Tower: New York City, New York_

It turned out Clint was absolutely right about this world's version of Tony Stark.

"No," Tony Stark said. "There's no difference at all."

"You're joking," this world's Clint snapped. 

"Hey, I'm as serious as a heart attack!" Tony protested. "You are the same Clint Bartons. Right down to the DNA."

"I don't believe this," this world's Clint groaned. 

Yeah, neither did Clint.

"Yeah, me neither," said Tony. "Coulson must be having a field day."

"And just what's that supposed to mean?" this world's Clint demanded.

"Well you and Coulson," Tony said. "See? Your new pal knows what I'm talking about."

"Shut up, Tony," Clint said. His face was flaming, he could tell. God damn all Tony Starks. 

"We're not _anything_ ," this world's Clint said. "We were never anything."

"Ah, but we both know that's not quite true, is it?" Tony sing-songed. 

"How about a knuckle sandwich, huh, Stark?" Clint asked. 

"A knuckle sandwich?" this world's Clint said. "Oh, let me guess. Steve."

Clint shrugged. 

"Wow, two of them…," Tony said in an undertone to Simmons.

"I know, right?"

* * *

_You've never understood the human obsession with time. The vessel has it: a sense of time lost, time gained. Time wasted. Time spent watching and waiting. You were amused when you first began to observe him first grew in him. Now, though, it's gnawing at you. Time is running out._

_This is panic. This is fear._

_Why should you fear time?_

_What is time to you?_

_You are beyond time, transcendent. The transition will happen, the vessel Phil will survive. You will make certain that it will. You make him stay at The Wall, absorbing the remnants of heat still seeping from it, even hours after Clint vanished._

_You will rise._

_Humans are so weak._

* * *

Surveillance Record and Analysis: The Rattrap  
Timestamp: 05/15/2014 22.32 hours

"Go to bed, Phil. You can't do anything right now." May hasn't slept, either.

"I was talking to Skye," Coulson answered. "She thinks she's close."

"Phil…"

"Terrigen," Coulson said. "There's a substance called Terrigen. Skye and Jemma think it had something to do with project T.A.H.I.T.I. They don't know about… they don't know everything."

"Have there been any changes?" May asked.

"None that you'd notice," Coulson said. "I sleep less. I dream more. I lose time. My hands shake. And this." Phil pulled up his shirt to show her.

Blue tendrils snaked through his torso. The number four train rattled past, a relentless reminder of the outside world.

"Touch them," he said as May drew her hand back. "No, touch them. They're cold."

"Ice," May said.

"Ever since Clint vanished, it's… I think it's speeding up. But I’m faster, I'm stronger. My vision is better, I can hear a centipede from across the room."

"That's not funny, Phil." 

**PORTIONS OF THIS REPORT ARE REDACTED. PROJECT CENTIPEDE IS CURRENTLY UNDER INVESTIGATION.**

* * *

_The Playground: Location, Classified_

Clint watched as Not-Phil awoke, sweating and shaking from a nightmare. Clint had come through the antechamber to Phil's office in search of coffee, only to find Phil asleep, twitching and whimpering on the sofa outside of the break room.

"Sir?"

"Go back to sleep, Clint—Barton," Phil muttered, sitting up. "I didn't mean to fall asleep here. 

"I'm sorry I woke you," Clint said. "I didn't expect you to be here."

"No, it's my fault, Barton."

"Nightmare, sir?" Clint asked. "And you can call me Clint, you know," he continued. "It's my name, too."

Not-Phil allowed himself a huff of laughter. 

"Nah, I get it, sir. My Phil… well, not really my Phil, 'cuz you know, we weren’t like that anymore, but my Phil had them, too. I wonder how he and Audrey managed… Of course he wouldn't tell me, because he was, he is like that. It sounds crazy, talking like this about you, but it isn't you."

"It's fine," Not-Phil said. 

"Yeah, I get that," Clint replied. "You're a lot like him, though. Even after he died. Aw, shit. Maybe I shouldn't have said that."

"No, I understand," Not-Phil said. "I died, too. I was talking to Stark, earlier, God help me. He thinks there was a divergence in time and space when I…"

"When you died," Clint filled in and flinched. 

"No!" Stark's voice echoed through the Playground. "Not when Agent died! When he _lived_!"

* * *

_When you flowed into the vessel, you awoke in a world of nightmares: the sharp crunch of steel, the burning of fire, the smothering, suffocating feeling of drowning. You vessel was begging for death._

_You wondered how such a weak vessel could hold you._

* * *

_The Playground: Location, Classified_

"I'm not looking for forgiveness!" Clint barked at Not-Phil. "You and I… we had something, but when you… when he died, Fury brought him back, said he needed his 'one good eye', and you… he, Fury kept going, made the doctors keep working on you. On him. Not you. Him. And all he, you wanted to do was _die_."

Deep sobs were tearing themselves out of Clint's chest.

"I saw you," he said, crazed. "In the middle of an operating theater, there you were – there he was, there were these things jabbing at you-him, strobes of lightning, and he – you were begging to die."

Clint gripped his hands together as Not-Phil stared at the floor. The steel, the slice of the blade, the pinpricks of fire in his brain, Clint could feel them all. 

"I know," Not-Phil said finally. "I could feel it. I thought it was a dream, but…" He opened his palms.

"No," Clint whispered, his hands still gripping each other. "It was real. It was all real."

"And were we—I don't know—real?" Not-Phil asked.

Clint laughed, a mirthless, grating sound.

"I had thought so," he said. "But I was never really good enough for you. Never strong enough."

"Clint," Tony said quietly. 

"We'd fucked, and I thought... I guess it meant more to me than it did to you. But there was, well, there was someone else. I think you were going to marry her. Which was good. I mean, it wasn't, but it was, because you... you deserved so much more than me."

Clint stopped, chest heaving. He looked up. This world's Clint stood with Tony at the door. 

Fuck. Clint pushed off the couch, limped to the door.

This world's Clint stood in his way.

"How dare you," he growled. "How fucking _dare_ you? You have no claim on him. None. He fought and died for me. Trusted me. And you… you _told_ him."

"Fuck you," Clint said. "You're not me."

"This is _awesome_ ," Tony said. "I mean… existential angst out the ass, awesome in and of itself, but Bruce totally owes me a hundred bucks."

"Shut up, Tony," this world's Clint barked at the same time Clint did. 

"Fuck off, Tony," not-Phil this time.

"He could never know," this world's Clint said, breath hot on Clint's cheek, hands grasping Clint's arms. "Never was supposed to know how much it hurt. Never let them see you bleed, right? Never let them see you cry. We learned these lessons, from dad, from Barney, from the circus."

"Clint, stop," not-Phil said. 

"No. No, I'm not going to stop." This world's Clint shoved Clint away. "I trusted you, Phil. I loved you. And whatever it was we had, it meant something. I let you fuck me, because it was easier than telling you the truth, I'm not good with words. I'm not good with relationships. So, this was what we had. And you… you _told_ him."

Clint knew the punch was coming, didn't try to duck. 

"Aw, fuck yeah! Beckett, eat your heart out!" Tony crowed.

* * *

Surveillance Record and Analysis: The Rattrap  
Timestamp: 05/16/2014 002.32 hours

"Skye, what are you doing here?" Coulson asked. Skye peeked around the doorframe.

"Yeah, I know this looks bad, but I know. I know you're changing," Skye said. "I don't know how I know, but Jemma and I were talking about the Terrigen and… you're changing because of it."

"It's me, too," Skye said. "I don't remember, how could I remember, I was a baby, but those papers you gave me? When you swore, you swore there wouldn't be any more secrets and lies, Phil, they led me here."

"What are you talking about, Skye?"

"Information dances for me, AC. I'm the fucking Pied Piper, you know that. You let me have my files, I talked to Jemma, it makes sense. And if _feels_ right. Take your shirt off."

" _What_?"

"I want to see."

"There's nothing to see, Skye," Coulson said.

"Yeah, I think there is. And I know what it looks like."

"No, Skye, you don't."

"I do. I do! It's because of the Kree. You'd call them aliens. Like Asgardian, only not. See, the Kree came to earth, like thousands of years ago, maybe more, and ran experiments on them. On humans, because they wanted to make a race of Kree-human hybrids," Skye explained. 

"Skye, we don't know…"

"No, Phil. We do know. It's happening, it's happening now and we can't escape it." Skye pulled Coulson close to her, pressed him against her. "We were lost for so long, but now, now it's time."

"Because of the GH-325 and T.A.H.I.T.I," Coulson said, his hands were shaking, flitting from her shoulders down her arms and back: the picture of discomfort.

"Yes. And it's time."

"Time for what?"

The number four train rattled past.

* * *

_The vessel is filled with fear. Always with the fear. You wonder if it was always like this for him. Fear is the smell of vomit and shit, and you hate it. You hate the human for having these feelings, for his weakness._

_The young one, Skye, is learning to leave her human fear behind. What the humans call GH-325 was administered to her, too. It prompted her, reminded her of her true nature._

_The vessel takes a deep breath. He is closer to Skye than he has been ever before and all that fills his head, interestingly are thoughts of Clint._

_He misses him. It's vulnerability, weakness. It's so human._

_It will die, it must die if he is to be a suitable vessel._

_"Skye," the vessel says. "I can't. I can't let this happen."_

_Skye looks frustrated, another human tic, and puts her hands on the vessel's face. Her hands are cool, the vessel turns his cheek into her touch._

_"What's going on here?" A new voice interrupts. The woman May. She could be an impediment to your plans. You make the vessel turn as a surge of energy passes through you._

_The process is not to be denied. The humans will wait._

* * *

_The Playground: Location, Classified_

Clint blinked the stars from his eyes. In the background he could still hear Tony talking.

Everything hurt. 

In front of him, in front of The Wall, not-Phil was locked in Clint of this world's embrace. Several things slammed through Clint's brain at the same time, first, that it was about damn time somebody was at least telling Phil the truth, or some version of the truth, secondly that how was this his life – because watching himself kiss the man he loved, okay, might as well own up to that one, was not something Clint thought anybody deserved. 

Tony was still talking. Through the rushing in his ears, Clint could hear the word "terrigen" repeated over and over. 

He knew that word. Knew it.

"Phil…"

Clint ran for The Wall.

* * *

_You can feel The Wall behind you._

_Skye's flesh is cool under the vessel's hands. They will be your hands, soon._

_The Wall is glowing._

_Skye's skin is its true color in its glow. She is a beautiful child, corrupted by the humans, yes, but she will be a strong warrior._

_"Skye," the vessel is trying to speak, trying to fight the change._

_"Phil!" You can hear a voice from a distance._

_"What's happening?" Skye asks. Ah, her human nature is beginning to emerge. Pity, that. "Coulson, you're hurting me!"_

_"Phil!" Clint's voice. The vessel is not entirely yours yet. He's responding to his lover's cry._

_Skye has managed to push the vessel away from her. May is approaching._

_"Phil," she orders. "Stand down."_

_You can still hear Clint calling for Phil._

_You reach for Skye to pull her towards you. She will be your anchor._

_May is too quick. The vessel fights back and for a moment the fear, the stench of terror fades. The vessel is strong: you are glad he was chosen, but May is stronger. You have the vessel's memories, you know how she fights, you know her tricks._

_"Stay away from her!" May pants as she kicks and punches you – the vessel. The vessel stumbles back and hits the wall, hard._

_Power surges through you as the vessel smacks against the wall. It's painful to the vessel, but beautiful to you. The vessel is fighting for breath, for life, but that's of little concern to you as you can feel the transformation pulsing through you._

_Yes. Yes. Let it happen._

* * *

_The Rattrap_

Clint is sprawled out on the floor in front of him, gasping for air, blood dripping onto his face.

Distantly, Phil thinks that it's _his_ blood. May had clocked him hard in the jaw before he went down against the wall. 

"Phil?" Clint's lips are moving, and distantly, Phil can hear his voice.

"Yeah," he makes himself say. "Yeah, it's me. You okay?"

"Yeah," says Clint. "I'm fine."

Phil thinks he should move: he's crouched over Clint and May is standing over them like some sort of avenging angel. Skye's there, too, behind May, Phil can feel her presence: like some sort of beacon. She looks scared. 

"I thought I'd lost you," Phil says instead.

"I'm not that easy to get rid of," Clint says with that crooked grin of his. 

"What happened?" Phil finds himself asking, pulling himself off of Clint to kneel on the hard, gritty floor.

Outside, the number four train rumbles and rattles past – the rhythmic clackety-clack of the wheels on the tracks . 

Inside, Phil can feel the creature, the Inhuman – what had Skye called it? The Kree writhe and howl. 

"We're not sure," Melinda says, helping them up. Approaching the room, Phil can hear the clomp of boots, the running feet of his agents. His agents, the ones he's managed to salvage from the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D, the ones who are loyal, not to him, but to a cause greater than all of them. "But you're both going to get checked out. And then we're going to review the evidence. All of us. Debrief."

Phil smiles, even though it hurts. May got his jaw _good_.

"Carry on, Agent May," he says. 

Inside him, the Inhuman snarls. 

Phil feels Clint's hand slide into his. 

"You're not gonna believe this," Clint says. "Come on, sir. Have I got a story to tell you."

"Full of daring do, Agent?" Phil asks. The banter feels familiar, hopeful. True.

"You betcha."

* * *

_You wait. The Wall may be silent for now, the transformation failed, thanks to those disgusting humans, thanks to Clint and May, but the Terregenesis is complete, and you will manifest._

_Your time will come. As the vessel leaves the room with Clint's hand in his, you catch the child, Skye's eye. She knows it, too._

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Wild Thing - Art for a fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2198244) by [varjohaltija](https://archiveofourown.org/users/varjohaltija/pseuds/varjohaltija)




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